


There is No Death (There is Grief)

by The_Last_Kenobi



Series: Whumptober 2020 [15]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: Jedi Apprentice Series - Jude Watson & Dave Wolverton, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Canon Divergence - Star Wars: The Phantom Menace, Character Death, Character Study, Gen, Movie: Star Wars: The Phantom Menace, Theed Generator AU, Whump, Whumptober 2020, duel of the fates au, mildly graphic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-15
Updated: 2020-10-15
Packaged: 2021-03-09 06:01:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27019966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Last_Kenobi/pseuds/The_Last_Kenobi
Summary: Qui-Gon Jinn lived his life in the moment, and he believed in the Chosen One.Obi-Wan Kenobi lived with the future in mind, and he believed in the Force - and Qui-Gon.Choices are made after Maul is cut down.Written for Whumptober 2020Day 15 - Magical Healing
Relationships: Qui-Gon Jinn & Anakin Skywalker, Qui-Gon Jinn & Obi-Wan Kenobi
Series: Whumptober 2020 [15]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1956463
Comments: 20
Kudos: 165





	There is No Death (There is Grief)

Qui-Gon Jinn knows he is dying.

No Jedi has survived a wound like the one running through his abdomen in centuries—not least because Jedi died in the field less and less after the formation of the Republic.

But also because the art of Force Healing has so declined, and the gift of healing such terrible wounds has always been so terribly rare.

And he can feel his mind detaching, feel his connection to the world around him fading—the Living Force, stripped away.

So, yes.

He knows he is dying.

The Jedi Master lays helpless on the floor, hot and cold all at once, and despite his years of training he is fearful. For Anakin, for his destiny and the prophecy. For Naboo, and the security of the Republic. And for Obi-Wan Kenobi, his Padawan, who is visible in his peripherals, dueling the Sith that has just struck Qui-Gon down.

Qui-Gon does not believe Obi-Wan can win.

Not because Obi-Wan is weak, but because he is unready, and because the anger and pain rolling off the boy—man—in waves is so strong that it makes the Master’s own Force presence quail.

Then there is a burst of terror, and Obi-Wan drops out of view.

Qui-Gon gasps, harshly, and waits for the bond to snap.

It doesn’t.

His vision does begin to grey, however. The bright generator room is dimming, and the Sith is a Dark storm in the Force, and Obi-Wan is still gone from his sight, and Anakin is all alone somewhere above, and who will fight for him now? No one else had been willing. They were all too afraid, to focused on their ingrained beliefs.

 _Something_ occurs on the edge of his vision.

The Force changes.

As his breathing becomes shallow and the cold spreads up his limbs and settles frost-like across his face, it takes the Jedi a few moments to understand what he has just seen and felt. It doesn’t really register that Obi-Wan has won the fight until the boy—man—drops to his knees beside him and lifts him, cradling the Master’s head in his lap.

Obi-Wan calls out for him.

It’s so very grey, now.

Obi-Wan is supposed to have copper hair—dark blonde in the shadows, red in the light. Fair skin dusted with freckles from his childhood and from exposure to a hundred suns on a hundred different planets. Wide, blue-green-silver eyes.

Right now, he’s slightly out of focus no matter how hard Qui-Gon looks, and the colors are all leeched out.

Qui-Gon struggles to speak. “It’s too late…it’s…” the breath hitches in his lungs.

“ _No!_ ” Obi-Wan refutes at once, voice cracking. His hands are the only thing left in the galaxy that seem to be warm. It’s tempting to just relax, lie back and embrace a peaceful death, let the Padawan say goodbye.

But there are more important matters at hand. Far more important.

“Obi-Wan,” insists Qui-Gon, “promise—promise me you’ll train the boy…”

The apprentice nods, recklessly. “Yes, Master.”

So obedient. So headstrong and foolish. Always so focused on what may come, hardly ever focusing on the here and now, on what truly matters.

One of the warm hands settles directly over the wound, but there is no pain.

“He _is_ the Chosen One,” Qui-Gon reminds the fading, greying boy leaning over him. “He will…bring balance…Train him.”

Obi-Wan isn’t looking at him.

It’s strange, and it’s frightening. Qui-Gon needs to know that his Padawan will carry out his promise, that he is focused on what his Master is saying to him—the galaxy depends on it, the boy far above them in the palace is depending on it.

“Obi-Wan,” Qui-Gon says, sternly.

And stops.

His voice is _stronger_ ; it is easier to speak. He can feel the muscles in his face and throat move as he speaks and tilts his head up to try and catch Obi-Wan’s eyes—Qui-Gon startles when he finds that he can feel warmth again in his limbs and chest.

Logic suggests he is experiencing a last burst of adrenaline, or desperation.

Something else suggests that logic is mistaken.

Obi-Wan is still not looking at him. He’s totally absorbed in studying the hand he has placed tightly over the fatal wound in his Master’s abdomen, his lips moving slightly, as if he’s talking to himself.

“Obi-Wan,” says Qui-Gon fiercely.

He feels pain.

Heat and pain.

He turns his own gaze to where his Padawan his touching him, and everything inside his head goes strangely blank as he takes in the faint glow filtering between Obi-Wan’s fingers, as if he is pressing a ball of light into the open wound—but he can feel things inside his own body moving, shifting around.

It’s almost as painful as being run through, but much slower.

“ _What_ —what are you—what are you _doing_?” he shouts, aghast.

Obi-Wan doesn’t reply, but even from the side Qui-Gon can see his lips twitch into a wry smile.

Qui-Gon watches the scene, feeling the pain threatening to overwhelm him, and sees color begin to bleed back into the world along with the warmth and agony. He’s still in Obi-Wan’s lap, but not because he can’t find the energy to move. Obi-Wan is pinning him gently down with the hand over the wound, and the pain that is setting his insides on fire keeps him still.

Qui-Gon tries to grab the wrist that is holding him and tear it away, to get rid of whatever Obi-Wan is doing to bring life and pain back to him—Obi-Wan finally looks at him.

His eyes don’t look blue, or green, or silver.

They’re glowing, leaking pale gold light, just like the light he is using to heal Qui-Gon -

-and it becomes horrifyingly clear all at once what the boy is doing.

“ _No!_ ” Qui-Gon cries, struggling, trying to get away. Pain sends him collapsing back again. Obi-Wan’s other arm comes around his shoulders, propping his head in the crook of his elbow like an infant.

“It’s all right, Master,” Obi-Wan says. His voice is frail, a stark contrast to the strength with which he is helping to hold the taller man down and to the ethereal glow from his hand and his eyes. “Just breathe.”

“No—” Qui-Gon flails out with one arm and catches Obi-Wan by the shoulder, shaking him. “Stop it, Obi-Wan, _stop_! You’re _killing_ yourself!”

“I know.”

Qui-Gon feels the Living Force returning, embracing him, welcoming him back to life. For the first time in his life, he fights it, trying to push it away, give it to Obi-Wan—

But it won’t work and he knows it.

That’s not what Obi-Wan is doing. It’s not possible to simply flood a dying person with the Living Force and bring them back to life.

So Obi-Wan, careful, methodical, headstrong, obedient Obi-Wan—he had looked at his dying Master’s face, heard his parting words; he had compared it to whatever he was feeling, and to whatever he believed about the oncoming future that he was so attached to—

And he had decided to _tear out_ his own connection to the Force, redirecting the flow of energy between himself and the universe into Qui-Gon’s failing body.

Obi-Wan is now the unsalvageable wounded warrior.

And Qui-Gon is going to be fine.

Everything had been grey not a minute ago, but now the colors seemed to be too much, too bright, too much—

Obi-Wan’s hair is a flame of warmth; his sea-colored eyes are still concealed by the light pouring out of them—the light was excess energy, burning him up from the inside as he neatly pulls himself apart from the inside out.

Qui-Gon fights.

All his strength is back, he can feel it, and the pain is lessening every second as his body repairs itself—as Obi-Wan repairs it—

But he cannot escape the damning, Force-healing hand.

“Obi-Wan, stop!” Qui-Gon screams, fighting wildly to get away. “ _Stop, stop, please! Don’t do this!_ ”

It is much too late.

It had been too late from the second Obi-Wan had made up his mind. The process began with ripping the Force out of your own mind and soul, and that, that was something that could never be undone or repaired. Even a non-Force-sensitive had a connection to the Force and the greater universe.

No living being could survive without it.

Obi-Wan smiles, the stars burning in his eyes illuminating his face with golden light.

“It’s too late,” he says, echoing Qui-Gon’s own words from moments before. “Train the boy, Master. You must.”

“You were supposed to—you _promised_ —”

“Only because you couldn’t,” Obi-Wan points out, completely calm. “Now you can. And you will. _Master_ …”

His voice fades away, and suddenly he is falling, leaning forward over Qui-Gon and resting his forehead on Qui-Gon’s shoulder even as he continues to hold him in his own lap, that hand still pressing over the rapidly vanishing wound.

“ _Obi-Wan?_ ” Qui-Gon asks desperately.

He tries again to push himself upright, and this time—it works.

He moves, and suddenly everything is on its head—Qui-Gon is now the one kneeling, cradling Obi-Wan in his arms, and Obi-Wan’s hand falls limply away as the boy—man—sinks helplessly into his Master’s arms.

When Qui-Gon frantically turns him over, laying him on his back and holding him like a small child in his trembling arms, he sees that the light and the color are bleeding away from Obi-Wan again. But instead of the whole world going grey, it is just Obi-Wan, just his Padawan.

The warmth leaves his skin. His lips begin to turn blue.

When his eyelids flicker open, the eyes that fix upwards on Qui-Gon’s face are dull. The glow is gone.

“No, _please_ ,” Qui-Gon begs. He’s shaking, and it’s making Obi-Wan shake, but he can’t seem to stop. “Why… _why did you do that?!_ ” he screams. “ _Why,_ Obi-Wan? How could you do that?”

The fading boy smiles up at him, his lips slack, the smile weak. “Capable,” he murmurs.

“What?” Qui-Gon brushes a hand across Obi-Wan’s cheek and hates how cold he is.

“Capable,” Obi-Wan murmurs again. “Headstrong. Reckless…nothing more to learn…ready…not ready.”

They're Qui-Gon’s own words, a dizzying, conflicting array of random vocabulary that he has used to describe Obi-Wan all over the course of the past week.

“ _What?_ ” Qui-Gon’s voice breaks.

Obi-Wan closes his eyes. “Made—choice,” his voice falters. “…One of us…has to train him…your choice. The Council’s. I—darkness. So much darkness. Pain.”

His face contorts on the last few words; he looks grave and grim, old, but his voice sounds like a frightened child. Qui-Gon flinches and holds his apprentice closer, trying hopelessly to keep him warm, to give him something. Anything. Please, oh gods, please.

Obi-Wan’s eyes flutter open again, and he seems to be summoning up the very last of his strength to do what he does next: he raises one pale, trembling hand, and traces it clumsily down Qui-Gon’s cheek, and says, “Force…gave me a gift. Vision. Master…be humble—brave. Love…him. Must love him. Not like—Xanatos—too much, too proud—”

The Master recoils slightly, shocked. Not once has Obi-Wan ever thrown his failures with his previous apprentice in his face like this, not ever—but Obi-Wan keeps speaking, and he’s paler and paler and so Qui-Gon tightens his arms around him even more and tries to listen over the thundering of his heart—

“And—not like—me. Cold, quiet…I…not enough.”

And that hurts far more.

Cold. Quiet. Not enough.

_Not enough?_

...Qui-Gon had not loved him enough, or...Obi-Wan was not enough to be loved?

Qui-Gon clutches the cold hand and presses it to his face, holding it there, fiercely telling himself that if they can just hold on—

Obi-Wan chuckles through blue lips. “So… _stubborn_. Master…Balance. Be balanced. Balance…will come.”

The Padawan sinks deeper still into the Master’s embrace, his eyes dimming, his skin white as a distant star. Even his copper-gold hair seems faded. His smile drops and does not return; Qui-Gon’s fierce hold is the only thing keeping him from dropping to the floor, and keeping that one hand pressed to Qui-Gon’s cheek.

Everything that makes Obi-Wan Obi-Wan is being drained away.

“ _Obi_ —”

Obi-Wan’s breath hitches, then stills.

It does not resume.

Pale, glassy eyes settle directly on Qui-Gon’s, and the gleam of life recedes from their depths and is lost.

Qui-Gon pulls the boy closer, propping him up in his lap so that Obi-Wan is sitting upright with his head against Qui-Gon’s shoulder. “ _No_ ,” the Master tries to shout, but it comes out broken and hoarse, half of a sob. “ _No_ … _Obi-Wan_ —we weren’t done yet—what—there was _more_ —no. Obi-Wan? _Obi-Wan!_ _Obi-Wan!_ ”

But his screams are heard by no one.

Qui-Gon stares down into the bottomless empty eyes, feels the warmth and vitality pumping through his own blood, stolen from Obi-Wan, given away freely—

He remembers thinking that there were more important things than whatever had been going on inside Obi-Wan Kenobi’s head. Remembers the boy waiting upstairs for his savior to return. Remembers his single-minded focus on what was before his eyes: a stubborn Council, a distracted and unready Padawan, and a powerful child with an enormous heart and even larger dreams.

He wonders who, in the end, had been the most headstrong and reckless, and cannot come up with an answer.

Cold. Quiet. Not enough.

The cold, quiet corpse in his arms is certainly not enough to make up for the void where there used to be Obi-Wan Kenobi. For once, Qui-Gon thinks he understands his Padawan’s fixation on the future, on possibilities—because the endless, drawn-out haze in front of him that is a galaxy with a long tear inside where Obi-Wan should have been is the most horrifying thing he has ever seen—Chosen One or no Chosen One.

With what Obi-Wan has done...

...It is uncertain that he even exists in the Force.

He's _gone_.

Qui-Gon Jinn presses his lips to the crown of the cold head and curls himself around the limp form, and stares at the life ahead of him, the one Obi-Wan has just ripped out of himself and given away.

Hot tears fall unheeded down his face and onto Obi-Wan, who does not and cannot feel them.

What did I teach him? he wonders. What did I do, that we never understood each other quite right?

Rocking back and forth in the empty generator room—surrounded by a vast galaxy brimming with warfare and scandal and the arrival of the Chosen One and the return of the Sith—Qui-Gon Jinn clutches the quiescent body of his dead Padawan in his arms and can only come up with three answers.

What had he taught him, what had he done?

Cold.

Quiet.

Not enough.

Qui-Gon Jinn holds what is left of Obi-Wan Kenobi and shatters.


End file.
